


Kismet

by theproseofnight



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Clexa Week 2018, F/F, Meet-Cute, Meet-Destiny, Meet-Ugly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-23 08:34:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13783734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theproseofnight/pseuds/theproseofnight
Summary: Clarke leaves a unique first impression on Lexa, though not the kind she was hoping for. Lexa doesn’t mind her unconventional ways. She thinks they’re inevitable, anyways.





	Kismet

**Author's Note:**

> A ficlet prequel to the main story [Except You Love](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13602705/). This is a deleted scene from Chapter 2—flashback to Clarke and Lexa's first meeting—cut out for length and tonal differences. Knowledge of that story is not necessary to read this, which has been reworked as a standalone for Clexaweek2018. :)

*********

 

“Holy shit.”

She exhales when she sees a lanky girl with a summer tan, green eyes, and impressive hair, standing out among the sweaty masses.

If this is what high school is all about, Clarke doesn’t know why her parents had bothered with kindergarten and grade school.

The gym is overrun with freshmen, piling in to take their seats for the morning assembly to kick-off the school year. Amid the chaotic scene of hapless teachers trying to herd the strays into some semblance of order, she had stopped in her tracks when she caught a glimpse of the regal nose and bee-stung lips and impossibly cutting jawline.

Aside from the breath-stealing aesthetic though, she has never seen such carriage and presence for someone their age, so disarmingly self-assured despite her slight frame. The girl makes cutoff jean shorts and a racer back tank top look like the tailored garment sported by royals. She thinks a red sash across the proud chest wouldn’t look out of place right now.

“Clarke, what the fuck?!”

A body slams into her back as Raven stumbles for balance at Clarke’s abrupt stop. She’s about to apologise when her best friend whisper-squeaks her own disbelief.

“Holy shit.”

“I know, right?”

“Who’s the blonde?”

“Who’s the brunette?”

Clarke asks at the same time, her curiosity immediately turning into confusion when she registers Raven’s question. “Wait, what?”

Raven nudges her head, silently drawing attention towards the other girl standing next to the brunette that Clarke hadn’t even noticed.

The blonde is slightly taller and looks maybe a few years older, but no less striking than her companion. High cheekbones and smokey eyes give off an attractive but intimidating don’t-fuck-with-me attitude. Though there is only a minor resemblance between the two, they do however share twin unimpressed looks while standing with their arms crossed.

Before either she or Raven could find out the identity of the pair, they’re being ushered away by irritable adults for the commencement speeches to begin.

While turning to take her seat, Clarke swears she saw eyes twinkling and a ghost of a smile directed her way, one that reaches her own lips and stays until the first bell rings.

As the rest of her day unfolds, Clarke can’t keep the girl out of her mind. Over the summer, she had experienced a sort of non-surprising epiphany when she realised that she paid just as much attention to the softness of girls skin as she did to boys rugged looks, sometimes more so. Seeing the brunette that morning only confirmed a universal truth she’s recently come to embrace with verve:

_God, girls are so pretty._

—

She’s never given fate or destiny a second thought, least of all the probabilities of a kismet meeting, but on entering her last period class she thinks maybe the universe might be looking out for her today.

Clarke has to hide her pleased smile when she spots the familiar mass of curls sitting a few rows from the front. Their gazes meet as Clarke stalls at the doorway, her breath catching in her throat at how arrestingly pretty the girl is up close. The freckles on her nose and sprinkled across exposed shoulders makes Clarke think of sun lotion and white sandy beaches. She can almost smell the salt water.

Clarke can only gape like a fish, rooted in place as the latecomers brush past her into the classroom.

Words flit through her mush brain. _Hello, how are you? Nice to meet you. Come here often?_ But nothing sticks in the slush.

She must be having the same effect on the brunette. When their eyes lock she doesn’t miss the shallow swallow. The tiny gasp.

Clarke wonders if it’s too early in her high school career to start thinking about senior prom. She’s never been a planner, but this seems like a good place to start.

She thinks of painting a mural as her grand prom proposal, and mentally makes a supplies list of the right brushes and bristles and canvas boards.

She thinks of the swell of string instruments as blue and green shades of chiffon and tulle and taffeta glide into the gym towards the centre of the dance floor under the cover of paper lantern lights hanging above it.

She thinks of brown hair pulled back in intricate braids with loose waterfall curls and blonde hair elegantly tied into a voluminous low chignon; of suffering through heels that hurt because they bring her lips closer to the underside of that jaw; of holding a hand in hers and hoping the sweating isn’t noticeable.

She thinks of kissing—

Fortunately, the bell rings to break Clarke out of her runaway imagination and non-verbal stupor. At the rate she was going, she’d be on bended knee swearing fealty before the first words in the paperback she’s holding, _“Two households, both alike in dignity,”_ can even see the light of day.

Unfortunately, she is forced to take her seat in the last open spot in the front row, effectively cutting off her prior gorgeous view.

As the English teacher reviews the term’s syllabus, Clarke begins to unconsciously doodle in the margins of her notebook. Mentions of submission dates and key readings are soon drowned out by the sounds of her pencil scratching against paper.

It isn’t until she hears the scurrying of feet and table legs scrapping against the floor that Clarke realises she has idled the hour away, and looks down at her notes to find a cape-like fabric flowing across the page, and a graphite pair of eyes staring back at her.

She turns to chance a glance behind, hoping the subject of her sketch is still there.

Sadly, her favour with the universe seems to have started to run dry. The room has already emptied.

—

As it turns out the next day, the universe not only doesn’t have her back anymore but might have an undisclosed vendetta against her.

When it comes to a paintbrush in her hand Clarke is at one with her craft, intimately connected to her tool as if it were an extension of herself. When it comes to general hand-eye coordination and everyday manual dexterity, she is a fawn in the woods perennially taking its first unsteady steps.

“Fuck.”

Clarke had been struggling for several minutes with the lid of the oversize white paint bottle, trying to close it more properly and tightly, when a last forceful twist produces the opposite effect, spilling the content all over her hands.

“No, no, no,” she chants, hoping her insistent denial would reverse gravity.

As the thick liquid drips down her wrists and onto the floor, she’s starting to regret volunteering to help tidy up after the first meeting of the art club.

Her eyes scan the room, frantic for any paper towels or wash cloths. _What kind of basement operation is this?_ Clarke huffs in askance when none appear in sight.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Cursing, she moves to exit the art room and head for the sinks of the washrooms, leaving behind white markings as she goes. By the time she is struggling at the door of the girls toilets to pull it open through a pulley system of uncoordinated elbow and knee movements, there’s a small pool of white collecting near her feet, and a ubiquitous trail of distinct droppings down the hallway.

Just as Clarke manages to pull the door ajar—and a second away from celebrating her victory—it swings wildly open.

Startled by the abrupt action, she yelps and takes a knee-jerk step back, only to have placed her foot right in the gooey mess. Another squeal as she slips and braces for impact.

But the impact never comes.

Instead, something has broken her fall, something oddly cushy and pliant under her. Super soft, actually.

Her hands instinctively squeeze for a better feel.

Regrettably.

Abject horror could not begin to describe what Clarke experiences when she opens her eyes.

Underneath her is the girl from English class, her never-going-to-happen-now future prom date, green eyes staring at her, shell-shocked.

In an alternate universe, a smooth Clarke would have landed a beautiful girl on her second day of high school.

In this universe, not only has Clarke landed _on_ a beautiful girl, she’s also fondling her. Actually, groping might be the more appropriate term given her hands continue to knead unsolicited into the softness. She immediately stills her movements, apology written all over her face.

Her silent contrition is only met with light panting from parted lips, all words likely lost in staccato breaths recovering from the landfall. Wide eyes and a dust of pink highlight the stunning features of her accidental hero.

Summer freckles this close are unbelievably captivating, like the constellations have been remapped across soft skin. And Jesus, that bottom lip is really stupidly unfair. That much pretty on one face is just plain selfish. She has to keep her gaze up to discourage any misguided desire to feel the plumpness against her own.

At least she’s not wearing a dress today. She wouldn’t know what to do if skin-on-skin contact between their thighs was involved too.

Small victories.

These are the things Clarke would think if she wasn’t currently trying to plot her own demise, since a graceful and painless exit is out of the question.

She thinks of catapulting herself off of the warm body, visualises taking a few shy steps backwards before turning around and making a honest-to-goodness sprint for the school doors. Clarke doesn’t ever engage in strenuous physical activity. But she might make this one exception. This is what the little of pride that she has left tells her to do.

_No words. No looking back, just run, Clarke._

_Run breathlessly until you cross into New Jersey._

(She doesn’t know how her vocational prospects can change so drastically in one day, from a planner to a runner.)

In reality, Clarke chooses to slowly roll herself off, rises to her feet, wordlessly extends a hand to help the other girl up, and mutters, “thanks for catching me,” without looking at her before she goes to hide forever in the washroom.

Spilled white paint forgotten.

Had she looked, Clarke would have noticed that she had indelibly left her imprint on a still-rapidly beating heart.

Maybe it was kismet after all.

 

*********

 

It smells. Like teen spirit.

It’s a mix between stale air and too much Axe.

Lexa doesn’t like it, she knows for sure Anya is not a fan.

They’re stood in the school gym, and although Anya’s a senior who doesn’t need to be at the freshmen assembly, the blonde had insisted on accompanying her sister for the kickoff to the new school year. Anya had played it off as wanting to scope out the incoming high school cohort, but Lexa knew better, certain of the ulterior overprotective agenda. It had been a difficult past few summers for them and Lexa only recently started opening up again.

Standing with their arms crossed among the sweaty masses, easily staying above the fray, she doesn’t know what Anya was worried about, so far the only offensive thing they’ve come across is bad deodorant and terrible tan lines.

If this is what high school is all about, why couldn’t she just skip to college.

On top of it, it had been an especially humid last couple of days. Lexa’s hair does not appreciate New York summers. She’s thankful to at least have opted for shorts and a racerback top, the heat in the gym more unbearable than the temperature outside.

“Who’s that?” Anya asks.

“You mean the blonde?”

Lexa had caught a flash of yellow coming in through the doors a few minutes ago. She had tracked the colour for a couple of paces until the girl turned around, the sight of electric blue eyes stealing her breath.

The blonde was wearing an off-white summer dress that’s just a hair shorter than school length regulations, but Lexa doesn’t mind in the least as she takes in how it highlights pale sun-kissed skin that’s at the tipping point of turning rose-colour.

“No, the brunette beside her.”

“I don’t know.”

Lexa doesn’t. She hadn’t even noticed there was someone else next to the blonde. The brunette looks tan and fit, a different kind of striking to her companion. But Lexa has already drawn her line in the sand, and is more partial to blue than honey brown.

Besides the obvious outer beauty, Lexa finds herself drawn to the blonde’s affable demeanour, radiating an ease and warmth that she could feel even fifteen feet away. She’s equally intrigued by the undertones of quiet rebellion that’s visible in the fading pink tips of her golden hair and what looks to be custom hand-painted Chucks. There must be an artist somewhere in there.

Before either she or Anya can conduct a deeper assessment of their unidentified subjects, a scared upperclassman—intimated by the twin scowls—gently beseeches them to take their seats.

They begrudgingly oblige.

The rest of Lexa’s day is spent thinking of the girl with the heartbreaker smile. She can’t get the image out of her head. She wasn’t sure if it was directed at her, but as she turned to walk towards the bleachers, she could have sworn she saw a preview of heaven.

It confirms for her yet again, a perennial Lexa truth:

_God, I’m so very gay._

—

Lexa believes in fate and destiny. She absolutely does.

Anya makes fun of her for it.

She doesn’t understand how her sister hasn’t come to the same conclusion, given Gustus and Alexandria Woods’ love story.

Their parents met while her father was vacationing in Europe, and her mother was studying abroad for a summer. They had met in the typical meet-cute, _I’m so sorry I spilled my coffee all over you, please let me buy you another one in this charming Parisian bistro we just both so happen to crash into each other in front of_ , kind of way.

But it wasn’t truly meant to be until they parted ways, hearts heavy thinking it’d be the last time they’d ever see each other again, only to discover that they live within three blocks of one another in Brooklyn.

It was a kismet meeting.

So Lexa isn’t surprised that when she looks up from her seat in English class she finds the girl that’s been on her mind is staring right back at her.

It’s the will of the universe, she thinks, even as Anya’s cynicism rings in the back of her mind. Indeed, later when she relays the event to her sister, Anya scoffs at her sappiness about inevitability, laughing off her misplaced trust in some higher power.

_Lexa, it’s the will of the school administration’s timetable._

But with the uptick of her pulse, she has to believe that there’s more at work here than tedious bureaucracy.

Lexa manages to swallow down her nerves, but fails to keep a small gasp in when their gazes lock. Closer-up, she can see brilliant azure curtained under thick lashes, and a beauty mark that prettily punctuates already very pretty lips.

Their last-minute classmates are rushing in, adding to the clamour of final period excitement for the first day of school to be over. But Lexa doesn’t hear any of it. Her ears are attuned acutely instead to the light rise and fall of quiet breaths in front of her.

Unfortunately, the bell rings and breaks them out of their mesmerising hold. Lexa has to quell her disappointment when the blonde has to sit in the last front row seat, partially obstructed from her view.

Lexa’s glad, however, that she’s mastered the art of multi-tasking so early in life. The next sixty-minutes is spent divided between mad scribbling down of notes and sneaking glances between nondescript guy one and even less memorable guy two towards the unforgettable blonde. That was bad, Lexa knows. She could have done better with her prose, being in English class and all. But she can’t seem to make sense of anything, least of all her adjectives, not with the girl’s faint scent of jasmine clouding her judgment.

She wonders if it’s coming from her perfume or her shampoo. It’s hard to tell from three rows back, and especially seeing as her head has been oddly down for most of the duration of the teacher’s lesson.

When not contemplating walking through fragrant fields of wildflowers, her hand weaving with another’s, Lexa productively spends the hour trying to cobble together something witty with which to approach the owner of that hand.

By the time the final bell rings, she’s only managed to come up with, “Hi …”, and nothing else, hoping that the Woods charm, that Anya swears by, would magically kick in somehow thereafter.

Thinking of her sister reminds her that her ride will be leaving soon without her if she doesn’t hurry. Charm might be aplenty with Anya, patience is not.

She allows herself one last longing look over, before she regrettably scurries out of the classroom without a word.

A by-product of believing in destiny is an adjacent faith in chance, the probability of something happening even in the absence of intention or cause.

Unlike her parents, she’s not worried that this is their last chance.

Lexa is certain they’ll see each other again, being classmates notwithstanding.

—

It’s the _how_ she’ll meet the blonde again that she wasn’t quite prepared for. It happens much sooner than the next English class.

Only the second day of school and Anya is already blithely informing her that she’s on her own for a ride today. Lexa chides herself for overestimating her sister’s commitment to schedules or any semblance of an ordered life, for naively holding out false hope that it would be at least a week before she’d be predictably abandoned. Anya had texted something about a Raven suddenly being higher on her priority list.

This is how Lexa finds herself in the girls washroom, having missed her bus because in her haste to chase it she had tripped over her own feet and spilled her water bottle all over her top. She hadn’t even made it out of the school doors before wetting herself.

Now, strategically standing under the hand dryer, with her shirt pulled away from her body and trying to direct as much air towards it with one frantic hand, Lexa wonders how different her day would be had she stayed behind yesterday to talk to the pretty blonde.

Would they be hanging out now? Grabbing burgers and fries instead of Lexa aerating herself during the after-hours of school?

What she wasn’t expecting was that the answers would be right on the other side of that washroom door.

Sufficiently dried a moment later, Lexa makes to exit the room, kicking the door a bit more forcefully than intended, eager to get home from her unlucky day. As soon as she steps through though, a field of white and yellow fill her vision, accompanied by a startled yelp.

Like a meteor crashing.

On instinct, Lexa reaches out and braces her arms to catch the shooting star, landing on her back to break the fall.

Her eyes are closed, her breaths coming in rapid, her butt slightly stinging, when she feels soft kneading of her breasts.

With the smell of jasmine infusing her nose once again, the unexpected act of intimacy is not an unwanted sensation. Images of wildflowers and golden hair and soft hands reappear. Yet, when she dares to look, she’s still shocked to find the subject of her daydream on top of her, within nose grazing distance.

Lexa was wrong before. That beauty mark isn’t just pretty, it’s fucking dismantling. When the blonde opens her eyes, Lexa’s knees would give out if she wasn’t already on the ground.

It’s complete silence for several long, intense seconds.

Intense, at least for Lexa, because she has to concentrate really really hard to keep her gaze above the neckline. She can faintly make out the deep scoop of the other girl’s t-shirt, caused by their positioning, and knows that if she did look, she’d see even deeper cleavage. The peep of lace isn’t helping either.

The impasse finally comes to an end when the girl rolls herself wordlessly off of Lexa and then helps her up, breaking their eye contact.

Lexa tries ducking her head to regain a glimpse of her new favourite colour, but all she’s afforded is a view of a deep blush before the words, “thanks for catching me,” are quietly uttered, and then the girl hurriedly disappears into the washroom.

She’s not sure what just happened, but she felt something seismic shift when they made contact.

Lexa puts her hand on her chest, trying to slow the racing beat underneath, only to look down and realise, she was covering another hand already pressed there.

Seeing the print on her heart, Lexa smiles.

Anya can suck it.

It was kismet after all.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Clexaweek! Looking forward to all the creative outputs from this ridiculously talented fandom, and reading the many different ways Clarke and Lexa love each other (and are meant to be).


End file.
